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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25582567">Devil Horns</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yikes_Writes/pseuds/Yikes_Writes'>Yikes_Writes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hello, Moon [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Billy Hargrove Needs Love, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy Hargrove Redemption, Billy Hargrove-centric, Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Child Abuse, Gay Billy Hargrove, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:01:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25582567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yikes_Writes/pseuds/Yikes_Writes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy was six when he realized his mother was different from the other kids’ mothers in his class. </p><p>-</p><p>A character study of sorts of Billy Hargrove and how he learned what happiness is.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hello, Moon [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1854124</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>181</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Devil Horns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a Part 2/ Billy version of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23163229">Please Tell Me So</a>. Can be read as a stand alone. </p><p>-</p><p>Follow me on Tumblr <a href="https://yikesharringrove.tumblr.com/">@yikesharringrove</a>!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Billy was six when he realized his mother was different from the other kids’ mothers in his class. </p><p>Billy loved her more than anything else in the entire world.</p><p>She was young, no lines adorned her face. She wore long dresses and didn’t brush her hair.  She was beautiful, and kind, and sang to him. She bought him comic books and read literature like <em> Little Women </em> to him. She would take him to the beach and braid his long hair, grown out to mimic hers. </p><p>She was young when she became pregnant. She dropped out of college at fifteen, a sophomore kicked out of her parent’s house. She found the only people that would take her in, friends from concerts and peace rallies that lived in tents and trailers on a large property together. She delivered him in a trailer, an older woman, the matriarch of the community, acting as midwife for all the young mothers. She screamed and held the hands of other women and brought a tiny pink son into the world.</p><p>She always cared for her baby, but a child herself, she made mistakes. She welcomed Neil back into her life, keeping correspondence through letters his entire deployment. She married him at the courthouse, Billy swinging on her arm, one little hand fisted in her white gauzy dress. </p><p>She made sure Billy knew he was loved for exactly who he is every single day.</p><p>But where she was kind, sunshine and flowers, Neil was mean, gravel and boulders. </p><p>Billy was six the first time his father hit him.</p><p>It was a quick backhand for <em>talking</em> <em>back</em> one night after dinner.</p><p>His entire life changed in one instant. The innocence of childhood melted <em> right </em> off him.</p><p>Neil Hargrove was an angry man. He liked things a certain way. A military man, he served his time in ‘Nam. He wanted the precision and order of boot camp in his everyday life. He married Billy’s mother when he returned for war, returning to a six-year-old Billy raised entirely by a community.</p><p>He was tight-laced, didn’t like the free spirit Billy’s mother passed onto their son. He didn’t like that the boy was soft. He cried easily over small, stupid things. His blue eyes would fill with tears at the idea of eating meat, traumatized at the concept of <em> eating animals </em>. </p><p>Neil didn’t like hippies. He saw them as the scum of the earth, people who did drugs and had sex and lived disgusting, dirty lifestyles. He was livid when he returned to California to find his only son growing up in a hippie community, being raised by many. Being raised to be soft, kind, to love anyone, <em> everyone </em>. </p><p>He never forgave the boy for being emotional. He was a crier, his heart broke easily and quickly. He felt the pain of others as his own. His father was pain incarnate. All he did was <em> hurt </em>. </p><p>He called Billy’s mother a <em> whore, a dirty hippie, a beatnik </em> . He called Billy <em> a lardass, a pussy, a queer </em>.</p><p>So Billy got angry. Internalizing his pain in any way he knows how.</p><p>He was seven when he first got in a fight. Just a little tiff between kids. He spat ugly names <em> fairy, pussy, queer </em> and threw his hands, trying to make any contact he could. His mother told him it’s not right to hurt others. His father called him a piece of shit and pushed him into the wall. </p><p>He was eight when he discovered metal in the record shop down the street. He loved the anger, the fire, the passion, <em> the fun </em>. He loved the men with tight pants and long hair. He learned that his mother, with her soft rock and psychedelic tastes would still dance around the kitchen to Black Sabbath and AC/DC. His mother smiled at him when he showed her the poster he bought of Jim Morrison, knowing she loved The Doors. He told her he thought he was pretty. His father called him a piece of shit and slammed him into the wall. </p><p>He was nine when he first heard another kid call his mother a name. Said <em> hippie </em> like his father did, as though it was a swear. He tossed a milkshake in the boy’s face, only to cry as his mother, a waitress at the diner, was forced to mop up the spill. She stroked his hair and told him it was okay and gave him an extra plate of fries. His father called him a piece of shit and slammed him into the wall.</p><p>He was ten when his mother left. She was gone by the time he woke up the next morning, her dresses and hats, her books and perfume, <em> gone </em> , only an empty space left in Billy’s heart. She called him a few weeks later, explaining to him that she loved him, but his father was causing her too much pain. His father cornered him in his room and slurred that his mother left because she’s a <em> whore </em> and that she never loved Billy. </p><p>He was eleven the first time he met Susan. She made dinner for himself and his father. He was told to be on his <em> best behavior </em> and set the table and clean the dishes. He complimented her hair and her cooking and met Max less than two months later. </p><p>He was twelve the first time he kissed a boy. He and Thomas met up under the boardwalk. Billy ended the short, <em> sweet </em> kiss by pushing him to the sand, threw the same slurs his father threw so easily, and screamed <em> if you ever tell anyone, I’ll fuckin’ kill you </em>. Thomas never spoke to him again, and Billy lost the closest friendship he had ever had. </p><p> He was thirteen when he finally lost his baby weight. He was lean, growing quickly and bulking up due to the sheer amounts of sports he was playing, at his father’s will. He grew strong, and his mean streak only widened, now backed up by a punch that could break. Girls started noticing him, <em> women </em> started noticing him, but he never noticed them. So he began to learn.</p><p>He was fourteen when he started going to parties. He learned to lean over girls, to wink at them, bare his teeth and stare at their breasts. He learned they liked it when he was mean, when they thought he was a <em> bad boy in need of fixing </em>. They would give him gossip, a warm body, and hold him when he wanted it. He learned to close his eyes and press their heads down until they choked on him. He learned that parties usually had drunk boys that would stare at him from across the room. He learned that a smirk and a long bout of eye contact was enough to let them know to follow. </p><p>He was fifteen when he spent all his savings on the Camaro, a junker he began fixing up entirely by himself. The car was loud, and made him feel <em> free </em> . He drove two cities over, finding a bar that catered to <em> his type </em> and got in with an unbuttoned shirt, tight jeans, and a well-timed wink at the bouncer. He learned he liked pretty boys, soft ones he could bury himself in. He learned he liked it when they moaned, high and breathy. He learned to pull hair and coo <em> God, you’re gorgeous </em>. </p><p>He was fifteen when he began lying every weekend. Citing parties and non-existent concerts as covers while he followed nameless men to motel rooms from the crowded gay bar he had chosen that night. He learned to spray dainty perfume on his jacket before he re-entered his house. He learned to toss around names like <em> Amber </em> and <em> Courntey </em> and <em> Becky </em>.</p><p>He was fifteen when he came home past curfew, with a hickey on his neck, on his chest. His father slapped him across the face and locked him in his room, took his keys with a reminder that he <em> shouldn’t be driving yet </em>. He learned that piercing your own ear doesn’t hurt that bad. He learned that he liked the way a gold hoop looked in his lobe.</p><p>He was sixteen when his father caught him with a boy, Seth from down the street. They were in Billy’s bed, kissing hungrily. Billy learned what it feels like to tumble down the stairs. He learned what it’s like to be hated. He learned how long the drive is from San Diego to Hawkins. </p><p>He was sixteen the first time he saw Steve Harrington. A beautiful boy with fear and sadness in his eyes. Tommy loved to spin tales of <em> King Steve, the Great and Terrible </em> , but Billy couldn’t match up the bullying douchebag with the sweet boy who looked at Nancy Wheeler like she hung the stars in the sky, just for him. He learned that Steve blushed when he called him <em> Princess </em> and <em> Pretty Boy </em>. </p><p>He was sixteen when he was angriest at Max, blaming her for the move, knowing it was his own preferences that brought them here. Knowing it was a father that hated him enough to move him to a place he could be killed for being himself. He learned to pick on her friends. He learned to break her things. He learned messing with her made him feel like shit.</p><p>He was sixteen when he met Steve at the quarry for the first time. They tangled themselves together in the back of Steve’s car, the air smelling like sweat and cigarettes and <em> cum </em>. He learned that Steve had a big house, that his parents were almost never home. He learned that Steve had nightmares and was afraid of his own swimming pool. He learned that Steve liked it when he was gentle and slow, treating the porcelain skin like it was made of porcelain glass, pressing kisses and pet names into his body. He learned that Steve fell in love quickly. He learned that he fell in love quickly too. </p><p>He was sixteen when he told Steve about his father. He came to Steve when he was hurt, angry and ready to break, to break <em> something </em>. He whispered about how his father hated him, hated people like him, like them. How it felt to fall downstairs. How it felt to have a split lip in the same pattern as his father’s class ring. He learned that Steve didn’t mind if he cried. He learned that Steve cried with him. He learned that trusting Steve made him feel lighter the next day. He learned what apologizing to Max is like. </p><p>He was sixteen when he planned for his summer in Hawkins, getting a job he was overqualified for. He drove to the mall as often as he could, eating far too much ice cream for someone who was about to spend all summer shirtless. He learned what Steve’s ass looked like in blue sailor shorts. He learned that Steve could be convinced to <em> leave it on, Pretty Boy </em>. He learned that he wanted to save up money for college, for California, for his future, for his future with Steve. </p><p>He was sixteen when Steve cooked him an elaborate dinner, early into summer, staying awake in the sticky night to count down to Billy’s seventeenth birthday. Billy learned that Steve preened when Billy told him he loved him.</p><p>He was seventeen when he began taking the lifeguard stand at the public pool. Overtired moms and bored housewives flocked to the sun loungers, watching him sit and blow his whistle. He learned that if he called them by their names they would buy him cold drinks. He learned if he smirked at them <em> just so </em> they would tip him for swim lessons.</p><p>He was seventeen when he got in a fight with Steve, disappearing in the Camaro to cool down and think things out. His car got hit, the right side smashing inwards, the windscreen splintering. He learned that monsters are real, that the stuff of nightmares lives in Hawkins, Indiana. He learned what possession is like.</p><p>He was seventeen when his veins went black. When he felt nothing but the urge to <em> build it, build it </em>. He hurt the people around him, offering Heather and her family to the creature, knocking out Max and the Wheeler boy, and taking El to impending death. He learned what being afraid was like, he learned that he had been afraid his entire life. He learned that some monsters are made from stolen flesh, some monsters are made from the flesh that created his own. </p><p>He was seventeen when he died. Rather him than any of these <em> children </em> . He was only a child himself, but a child that had seen too much, been <em> hurt </em> too much. He learned that death in that way is painful. He learned that resurrection is only more so.</p><p>He was eighteen when he left the hospital, the one run by the government. He left with scars, a limp, and a large sum of cash <em> for compensation </em> . He learned that Steve still loved him. He learned that Steve didn’t mind his scars, his pain, would hold him through the worst nightmares. He learned that Steve would take him to therapy, one at the government hospital, and one in a local church for <em> Survivors of Abuse </em>. </p><p>He learned that his father was killed by the monster, the monster that <em> was </em> Billy. He learned he didn’t know how to feel about that. Steve had just pet his hair, said <em> fuck him </em> , and <em> you don’t have to mourn that asshole </em>. </p><p>He was eighteen when he took his college fund, his compensation money, his savings, and Steve’s paychecks and put them in a box in the back of the Camaro. He learned that Steve had a hard time reading maps and that the drive was more fun when all that was waiting was love and warmth. </p><p>He was nineteen when he earned his G.E.D., citing severe injury as the cause to his delayed education. He applied to college. He got into college. He began going to college. He learned he loved meeting new people, being able to tell them about his <em> boyfriend, Steve </em>. He learned the California sun was more healing than any amount of physical therapy. He learned he was not ashamed of his scars. </p><p>He was twenty when he held Steve to his chest and rubbed his back and told him he was <em> so sorry you had to go through that, Pretty Boy, </em> when he finally let Billy in on the secrets that haunted his big brown eyes. He learned that he had saved Steve’s life as much as Steve had saved his.</p><p>Billy Hargrove was twenty when he learned what happiness was.</p>
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